


Fallout

by lha



Category: Sherlock (TV), Spooks | MI-5
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mycroft-centric, Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, Post-Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, Pre-Relationship, Sickfic, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-04
Updated: 2018-08-24
Packaged: 2019-06-05 09:32:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 12,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15167768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lha/pseuds/lha
Summary: Set some extended time after the events of The Reichenbach Fall.A major incident, a familiar address and a favour result in Greg and John being pulled back into Mycroft's world.  No matter how long it's been, or how unforgivable some things seem, the unfolding truth changes everything.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is something I started forever ago. It's been reworked and re-imagined but I've realised recently that if I post the start then I'm more likely to make decisions and stick with them. Hopefully it'll work this time too!

John had seen the news while he was having lunch at the surgery earlier so wasn't surprised to find a message from Greg on his phone when he finished afternoon surgery.

 _“Something’s come up,”_ the voicemail started, _“I’m not going to be able to make this evening but give me a call when you get this?”_ John selected to return the call as he walked along the street. It wasn’t unusual for either of them to have to cancel or rearrange their plans at the last minute but normally it was just a quick text of apology they sent.

“Hi,” he said as they were connected.

“Hi, thanks for calling me back,” Greg said in hushed tones.

“No problem, I take it your day hasn’t gone to plan.”

“You could say that.”

“Gas explosions in Bloomsbury will do that I suppose. Was it bad?” The news report he’d seen at lunchtime had been sketchy but the indication had been that although there had been a reasonable amount of structural damage there had been minimal casualties.

“It…” John got the impression that Greg was moving and heard a door close with a muffled thunk. “It wasn’t the gas main John.”

“Oh,” was all John could think to say  
.  
“It... it was an assassination attempt.” There was a moment of silence before the other man continued. “They fired a rocket into the home of a mutual acquaintance of ours.”

“A mutual acquaintance? Who do we know that lives…” he tailed off as the realisation struck. He braced himself for the wave of molten anger to swamp him at the mere mention of the elder Holmes. It seemed that time did make a difference though, as instead of a deluge, it was closer to a ripple. It had been almost two years since he had last seen or spoken to Mycroft Holmes and while he had no great desire to change that, he found himself hoping that the other man had not been at home. “Was there…? Is he…?”

“He was trapped for several hours but got out pretty much in one piece. Anthea was with him when it happened… they think she was technically dead minutes after it happened.”

“Technically?” John asked, looking back and forth before nipping across the busy road.

“CPR was still being maintained when the fire brigade broke through.”

“Bugger,” John sighed reaching up to pinch his nose, he could see it too, the arrogant sod not able to admit defeat.

“Look, I know the two of you…” Greg hesitated, and the doctor could hear him take a deep breath. “Would you come round?”

“Are you ok?” John asked after a moment.

“I… they were trying to admit him but he wasn’t having it.”

“Greg…”

“He kept saying that he had to get back to the office. John,” the other man’s voice dropped into a whisper. “I couldn’t leave him.”  
“There must be someone else… ”

“Some flunky brought a suit, a laptop and a phone to the hospital but they were left at the desk. I don’t know John but… It’s not like nurturing friendships is something that Mr and Mrs Holmes taught their children well.” John couldn’t argue with that, neither of the brothers were, or had been, gifted socially. “He’s in no fit state to be on his own, John.”

“If you were that concerned then they should probably have kept him in for observation.”

“That wasn’t an option, he was leaving one way or another.”

“There’s always sedation and restraints.”

“John, I know he…”

“Calm down, I’m about to get on the tube and I’ll be with you less than an hour. Do you need me to bring anything?”

“Takeaway?”

“Done. See you soon.” 

“Right. Thanks.” Hanging up, John stepped to the side of the pavement, letting the flow of traffic continue past while he pulled his thoughts together. After a few moments, he turned and headed back towards the practice to pick up his medical bag. Just in case.


	2. Chapter 2

The tube was packed but even then it wasn’t much more than an hour later when John rang the bell outside Greg’s flat. His medical bag was sliding off his shoulder and he shifted the Indian he’d picked up on route to his other hand so he could grab the strap. All the time he’d been on the tube, and even sitting in the takeaway, he hadn't been able to look anywhere without seeing an Evening Standard or a Metro with pictures of the Bloomsbury explosion plastered across the front. John couldn’t help but think that it was a miracle that anyone had survived at all, but he’d tried valiantly not to dwell for fear that he’d be more sympathetic than was strictly necessary towards Mycroft Holmes.

“Alright,” Greg greeted him, stepping back to open the door to let him in. He looked exhausted and stressed.

“Sorry, rush hour traffic.” 

“No worries, thanks,” he added, taking the food from him. “Kettle’s just boiled.”

“Mmm, please,” he said, following Greg into his living room. It wasn't a particularly spacious flat but it suited Greg and he always looked at home there. As the other man headed through the door to the kitchen at the other end of the room, he glanced to the sofa on his left and John followed his gaze. It had been so long since he’d seen Mycroft Holmes that he’d almost forgotten that a man could sit that straight, particularly on a sofa. The man who was perched at the far end of the settee surrounded by paper and with a laptop balancing on his knees was not however, the man he remembered.

“I’m sorry John,” Mycroft said after a moment, eyes never leaving the screen and his fingers still dancing over the keyboard, “I don’t mean to be rude but I… I need to get on.” What it was he was getting on with John wasn’t sure, but he was typing in something that wasn’t English, his keystrokes producing unfamiliar characters that the GP suspected might be Russian. For John, who still used the two finger hunt-and-peck method, the other man's use of a standard qwerty keyboard to type in a cyrillic language was just another remarkable Holmesian feat. 

The now familiar ache he felt when Sherlock came to mind settled in his chest but he had learned to relish the memories that came with it. This was not the man from his memory though, the man who had abducted John, driven Sherlock to distraction. He wasn’t even sure that this was the man who had ultimately betrayed that same brother in the worst possible way. 

The physical changes were obvious and not all of them could have been put down to the events of the day; he looked worn and tired rather than smug, older than the difference two years should have made. More than that though, he was showing all the signs of someone so deep in shock that he was functioning solely because he hadn’t allowed himself to stop. John made a mental note to find out who had overseen whatever basic treatment had been provided at the hospital, because there was no way that this man should have been allowed to walk out of A&E. 

He had obviously not changed into the new suit that had been delivered, though he had lost his jacket. Instead, he was sitting there in his waistcoat, his shirt open at the collar and with the bloodstained sleeves rolled up to the elbow. It didn’t take someone of Sherlock’s calibre to spot the dust on his trouser knees, the scuffed toes of the handmade leather shoes all artifacts of the time he must have spent kneeling on the floor performing CPR.

“Here you go,” Greg said, reappearing with three mugs in hand.

“Thanks.” The policeman gave him a meaningful look before he swapped the still full and obviously cold mug sitting on the coffee table in front of Mycroft with a fresh one.

“I’ve put the food in the oven for now.” John nodded, as Greg perched on a chair and he settled at the free end of the sofa. The silence stretched on, the only sound the rhythmic clicking of keys until suddenly, seemingly unnaturally loudly, a phone vibrated on the coffee table. Mycroft froze, his fingers hovering, trembling before he reached down to pick up the phone.

“Yes?” he said, clearing his throat. “Yes, of course Sir.” There was another moment of silence before he began to talk again in what was some form of Arabic. John stood and gestured for Greg to follow him back into the kitchen. 

“He’s been like this since… pretty much since they got him out,” he whispered when they were as far away as they could get. “I mean… Hell John! She was… It was a mess… the longest I’ve ever had to do CPR alone for is ten minutes and it just about killed me.”

“Take me through it from the beginning,” John said calmly.


	3. Chapter 3

When the news had swept through the station, Greg had felt the bottom drop out of his stomach. There were no details of the homeowner but he had recognised the street and known almost instantly that it wasn’t an accident and who the target must have been. He had gone to the scene not knowing what would find or whether he would be able to do anything but there was a small part of his brain that kept pointing out that he hadn’t been there for Sherlock when it had mattered most. John had told him in an angry tearful rant not long after the suicide that it had all been Mycroft’s fault but while Greg had sympathised, he knew that it was never that simple. 

He had been around for longer, had seen the hell that Sherlock had put his brother through with the drugs, the disappearing and the increasingly irrational behaviour. Had seen the moments when Mycroft’s façade had cracked, when the constant rejections of his attempts to help broke through his shield of logic and his impeccable English reserve. Those were the nights when they’d shared a glass in front of the fire in the other man’s study. The study in the house that had just been blown up.

When Greg had gotten out of his car, shown his ID and slipped under the tape, it had almost been like he’d been walking through a dream. Then the sound of glass crunching beneath his feet had brought him back to the reality of it all. There was debris everywhere; stonework and wood lying strewn across the pavement, dust heavy in the air. It was like a war zone. Emergency service personnel of every description surrounding him and he could see a group of what he was certain were SO15 officers, pulling up at the barriers. 

It was standard protocol that everyone deferred to the fire brigade and bomb squad until the scene was declared safe. It had been confirmed that there was someone, potentially multiple persons, in the building when the incident had happened so the stabilisation of the wreck and the retrieval of casualties would be their first priority. The investigation into what had happened would fall under the auspices of SO15, Counter Terrorism Command, or possibly MI5, but that didn’t mean that Greg’s own investigative instincts weren’t kicking in. In the meantime, uniformed police officers were in the process of evacuating the rest of the buildings on the street. Greg checked in with the control point, was issued a radio tuned into the emergency frequency and started to help where he could. 

More than an hour after he arrived, he had smoothed the ruffled feathers of several well-heeled and recently dispossessed individuals and had refrained from killing any of them. Retreating back to the road barrier he was happy to see a familiar face amongst the uniforms.

“You know the guy who lives there?” Simon, asked after their usual greetings. When Greg had first joined the force, the sergeant had taken him under his wing and stopped him doing anything too ridiculous until he’d got his feet under him.

“Yeah. Not all that well, but I worked with his brother.”

“I thought I’d heard the name Holmes floating around - hadn’t realised he was one of those Holmes’ though.”

“The very same.”

“Well,” the other man said, looking around him to make sure there was no-one nearby before leaning in and talking quietly. “Looks like this one must have made his own enemies. Special’s are talking about pretty serious weaponry.” Greg didn’t doubt it and didn’t doubt that Simon would know about it; though he’d stayed in uniform, the older man was sharp as a tack.

The gas leak story would probably hold water for the public but the way that the Specials were congregating around one of the houses opposite, made Greg think that they suspected it was involved in some way. Assuming that Mycroft was one of the people inside his own home when this had happened, the DI was surprised at the lack of cars with tinted windows and those chauffeurs-come-bodyguards that had always seemed to lurk in the background whenever the minor civil servant was around. He hadn’t even spotted anyone who looked like they belonged to Five. Greg might have been tempted to think that the other man’s situation had changed if it wasn’t for the fact that it seemed like someone had fired some sort of short range missile into his home.

He was startled out of his thoughts when his radio crackled into life,

“We’ve broken through and made contact,” one of the firemen said presumably from within the building. “The structure’s relatively stable but we’re going to need medical assistance. Two casualties confirmed, one down with no unassisted pulse or respiration. We’ve taken over artificial respiration and heart compressions but there’s been no independent signs of life since the incident or shortly thereafter.”

“We’re sending in the doctor and the paramedics,” the unit control point said, much more clearly. Greg watched as a young man in a fluorescent jacket followed another fireman through the rubble, two paramedics in familiar green following behind, carrying a spinal board between them. It had been a long time since he’d prayed but he did then.


	4. Chapter 4

A scuffle involving some over-curious members of the general public proved a timely distraction and it was pure chance that Greg was looking in the right direction when Mycroft appeared out of the wreckage. He had a fireman on one side and a paramedic on the other and though the policeman could see no particular sign of injury it was fairly clear that they were the only things keeping him upright. They guided him over towards one of the ambulances but it looked like he was trying to pull away. Greg started walking towards them, not sure whether he would be well received but thinking that a familiar face might not be unwelcome.

“…fine. Really, you would be much better focussing your attention on my assistant.” Mycroft was obviously trying to protest but he would have sounded much more convincing if he hadn’t been shaking like a leaf and panting for breath.

“Don’t worry, she’s being looked after,” the paramedic said, obviously attempting to reassure him. 

“Her condition is serious and I have nothing worse than a scraped knee.” 

“Let them do their job, Mycroft,” Greg chided as he approached. The younger man looked up at him from where he had been sat on the back step of the ambulance, and seemed to gaze through him for a moment before his eyes focussed. 

“Detective Inspector Lestrade,” he began, only to fumble, unable to figure out what he should say next. 

“I can’t say I’m not glad to see you,” Greg was aiming for light but not sure that he succeeded, “you gave us a bit of a fright.”

“I’m quite fine, I assure you,” Mycroft continued, his chest rising and falling unevenly, “but A… Anthea… We only arrived back in the country this morning…” He zoned out again, and the medic took the opportunity to drape a blanket around his shoulders and fasten a blood pressure cuff around his arm, giving Greg an appreciative look while he worked. 

The policeman had been about to try and offer some reassuring words when there was a noise behind him and he turned to see another paramedic and a couple of firemen working their way slowly across the debris. They held a stretcher between them and Greg could only imagine how challenging getting through the worst of the wreckage must have been. His thoughts were derailed when Mycroft stood, moving as though he were about to go in the direction of the stretcher until suddenly, at the same moment that Greg processed what he was actually seeing, he froze again. 

He wasn’t sure whether it was the fact that the doctor was walking slowly behind them, his eyes on the ground, or the blanket pulled up over her face that hit home first but the meaning was clear. There was an almost shocked intake of breath from the man next to him and he saw a look of utter devastation pass fleetingly over his face before his knees gave way. Greg and the paramedic caught him and he seemed to regain his feet quickly, his face completely devoid of any emotion. 

“Let’s get you inside shall we?” the paramedic suggested gently, catching Greg’s eye, “Get you a proper seat and warm you up a bit.” For a moment it looked as though Mycroft might say something but in the end he just swallowed, blinked slowly and nodded. It took them both to help him up the step and into the back of the ambulance but he sat demurely on one of the fold down seats, allowing the medic to do whatever he wanted. “I’m Tony,” he said looking back at Greg, as he worked.

“Greg,” he replied automatically, trying to keep as far out of the way as he could.

“Ok Mr Holmes?” he asked, turning back to his patient and receiving another tight-lipped nod in return. “So Greg, you coming with us?”

“Yeah, I can do,” he said, glancing back at Mycroft who wasn’t acknowledging the conversation.

“That would be good,” Tony said. “Maybe Greg can contact someone for you Mr Holmes?”

“My office will have been informed, that’s all that’s required.” Mycroft’s tone was entirely flat now and while Tony looked unconvinced, he didn’t push the matter. 

“Alright?” the other paramedic said, approaching the back of the ambulance. Behind him, Greg could see Anthea’s body being loaded into the back of one of the other vehicles. “Ready to move?”

“Yeah, I think so,” Tony replied before looking over both their heads. His partner glanced behind them to see a couple of SO15 officers moving in and looked back at Tony who shook his head. The other man nodded in response before turning and doing a remarkably good job at putting them off. “Take a seat,” he instructed, gesturing Greg towards the second seat before pulling the doors shut and sitting himself opposite the pair of them on the stretcher.

The journey was short and spent mostly in silence and when they arrived Mycroft insisted that he was well enough to enter under his own steam. A nurse led them straight through to a cubical and instructed the patient to take a seat on the bed and a doctor would be with him shortly. Greg watched as Mycroft sat himself primly on the edge of the trolley, his silence and the complete lack of expression on his face growing more unnerving by the minute.


	5. Chapter 5

Whether because of the fluorescent lighting or just some of his own shock wearing off, Greg found that he was really looking properly at the other man now. He wasn’t sure when, but at some point, the usually impeccably dressed man had lost his suit jacket and the rest of his clothing was covered in sweat, dust and blood most of which didn’t seem to be his own. Perched on the edge of the bed, Mycroft’s back was ramrod straight and his delicately crossed ankles hung in mid air as his gaze remained firmly focussed on his clasped hands . The juxtaposition was extreme and it reminded him strangely of another Holmes brother, always challenging the social norm for better or worse. When a doctor pulled back the curtain, Greg made his excuses, hoping to offer Mycroft at least a little privacy.

“I’ll just check in with the station,” he said and when he didn’t receive any response, he looked to the doctor, “I’ll just be outside.” She nodded in response before turning back to her patient. 

“Right Mr Holmes, let’s take a look at you shall we?”

When he’d spoken to Donovan, she’d been more curious about what was going on with the explosion site than in discussing what paperwork he’d left on his desk. He took that as a sign that he wasn’t being missed and after checking his watch, decided to act on impulse. 

“Sally, I’m going to take this afternoon off.”

“Why?”

“Because I can.”

“Prickly,” she teased. “Meet an old friend at the scene?”

“Something like that,” he said with a grin, knowing that she’d read whatever she wanted into it anyway. 

“Well have a good weekend then and we’ll try not to call you.”

“You do that.”

When he came back into the waiting room he spotted the pair of SO15 officers who would no doubt need to speak Mycroft as soon as he was declared fit. He gave them a nod but didn’t approach. There was a suited woman at the reception desk having an obviously curt conversation with the receptionist who eventually stood to take the suit bag, and laptop case from her. The woman then turned abruptly on an expensive heel and left the room, bent over her blackberry and tapping away frantically.

“Hi,” he said, approaching the desk, “are those for Mr Holmes?”

“Can I ask your name, Sir?”

“DI Gregory Lestrade,” he said pulling out his ID for her inspection.

“That’s fine, but you can tell your colleague that there was no need to be so rude.”

“I’m sorry, I’ll be sure to pass that on,” he said, taking hold of the items, “and thank you for your help.”

He took a seat on one of the plastic chairs but didn’t have to wait long before he saw the curtain pulled open and the doctor gesture for him to join them.

“You’re a friend of Mr Holmes?” she asked quietly. He nodded rather than start another debate on acquaintances vs. friends. “Well hopefully, you might be able to talk some sense into him then.”

“Are you being difficult Mycroft?” 

“Not at all.” Whatever else had happened, it seemed that the examination had spurred some part of his brain back into functioning. “Merely trying to save the NHS a little money.” His face was still a blank mask and he hardly looked better than he had earlier but at least he was forming coherent sentences, Greg thought.

“I would like to admit Mr Holmes for observation,” the doctor interjected.

“After you confirmed that I have suffered no lasting damage.”

“You have however been through a particularly stressful ordeal and you…”

“I have a high tolerance for stressful situations Dr Clarkson,” Mycroft said calmly, “and more than a few matters awaiting my attention at my office.” Greg did a double take. Not wanting to spend any more time in the hospital than strictly necessary he could understand but the idea that this man was about to walk out the door and head straight back to work was beyond ridiculous. “Now, if you’d be so good as to arrange for the correct paperwork so that I can declare you free of further responsibilities then I will vacate this bed for you with all due haste.” He almost sounded like the old Mycroft other than the complete lack of emotion or variance the tone of the delivery. The doctor looked at Greg and shrugged in frustration before excusing herself. “Are those for me, Inspector?”

“Ah, yeah, sure,” Greg said handing over the bags, “look…”

“Thank you, Inspector. If you’d give me a moment to change?”

“Right, yes, of course.” Before he could leave however, the Specials were inviting themselves in.

“Can we have a few words, sir?”

“Yes of course,” Mycroft said absently and Greg was shown the way out of the cubicle by one of the other policemen.

He stepped away from the curtain more out of a need for space to think than a desire not to overhear the questioning. Wandering back in the direction of the waiting room he found Dr Clarkson filling in paperwork.

“Not the easiest of patients is he, your friend?” 

“Not exactly,” Greg agreed. She stopped writing, her pen still poised over the page before looking up at him.

“It’s going to hit him eventually, you know. I was told about his colleague, about how long he’d been attempting to resuscitate her… emotionally, physically…”

“Yeah, I know…”

“Well do me a favour, do him a favour - take him home, feed him some sweet tea and catch him when he keels over.”


	6. Chapter 6

“Found him five minutes later, outside, still in the same clothes, on the phone and trying to hail a cab,” Greg finished with a sigh. John watched him as he drained his mug before putting it on the side. He was still trying to establish what exactly it was that he felt but really all that mattered was he knew that it was certainly more than just solely loathing and contempt. 

The quiet mumble of the other man’s voice from the sitting room stopped and there was the heavy clunk of a phone hitting the top of a table carelessly. He glanced at Greg before leading the way back through; the laptop was sitting open on the table, the phone abandoned next to it while Mycroft sat forward, his clenched fists resting against his eye sockets. John could see him trembling and after only a moment’s hesitation crossed across the room to sit next to him on the sofa. He just sat there for a moment, allowing his presence to sink in before he reached forward and closed the lid of the laptop and, picking up the phone, turned it off.

“Wha…?”

“It’s time to stop,” John said quietly. 

“No… I have… There are things I need to do,” he looked almost panicked now. 

“The only thing you need to do now is to stop.” The tone was one he had used more often on the battlefield than of late; soft but sure - the perfect cross between commanding officer and caregiver. Mycroft’s gaze flicked from the closed laptop to the phone in John’s hand and back again several times before he looked up at his face. Just when John thought that he was about to speak however, there was a decidedly officious sounding knock. 

Greg crossed the room, stepped out into the hall and opened the door,

“I need to speak with Mr Holmes,” a clipped woman’s voice said.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Greg replied equally forcefully.

“I didn’t ask for your permission Detective Inspector.” She tried to step past him, but Greg blocked her progress with an arm.

“You didn’t need to speak with him earlier. At the hospital.”

“The computer was encrypted. These files are Eyes Only.” John watched as Greg assessed the woman for a moment before stepping out of the way to let her in. John watched as she entered the room and decided instantly that he was not a fan.

“John Watson,” he said, standing and holding out a hand. 

“I know," she said, looking down at his hand but not reaching out to take it. "You can call me Anthea,”

“Are you serious?” Greg asked, coming into the room behind her.

“It’s tradition,” she replied with a cold smile. “Isn’t it Mr Holmes?”

“A… Anthea, that is to say, the Anthea you knew wasn’t... she wasn’t the first Anthea.” John glanced to the side and realised that Mycroft was about to go down the moment before it happened. The doctor guided his slumping form back to sit on the sofa, manoeuvring his head between his legs in an attempt to keep him conscious. 

“Breathe,” he instructed gently, reaching a hand round the other man’s bony wrist, and beginning to count silently. It didn’t take long to realise that Mycroft’s heart was racing, the thread of his pulse weak beneath his fingers, but that was hardly surprising given the circumstances. 

“Well, whatever your name is, I think you’d best leave. There’s no way Mycroft here is fit to do your dirty work tonight,” Greg said and John could see him standing taller and squaring his shoulders.

“Mr Holmes’ expertise hardly lies in the area of ‘dirty work’ but he does possess certain… _talents_ , which are an asset to the nation.”

“Well he’s hardly likely to be asset tonight is he? So you can just take yourself off.” This was the experienced London cop she was dealing with now.

“And you can take your time before calling on him again,” John pitched it. “Say a fortnight on Monday.” The new Anthea looked between them with a calculating glare,

“I’ll be back at nine o’clock tomorrow morning. It will be in everyone’s best interests if Mr Holmes is up to speed and ready to continue with his pre-arranged itinerary by then.” And with that she turned on an improbably tall heel and left. 

John and Greg shared a look of disbelief as the door closed behind her. 

“I’m… I’m sorry,” Mycroft mumbled from between his knees while shifting to try and sit back up. John gently helped him to sit and then lean back into the couch “She always was something of a trial,” he continued slightly breathlessly. “But I think that her recent promotion might make her unbearable.”

“Unbearable is one word for it,” Greg muttered, turning the key in the front door and threading the chain into the latch. 

“Well that can be a topic for another day,” John interjected. “Right now, we need to get you into bed before you fall over Mycroft.”

“That’s really not…”

“It’s what’s happening whether you like it or not.” 

“Yeah, what he said mate.”

“Greg, do you think you could…”

“Bed’s already made and I found some PJ bottoms and a t-shirt that I thought might pass. Shall I put the kettle back on?”

“Please,” John answered and the other man turned back to the kitchen, “Let’s get you through and then, I’d like to give you a quick once over Mycroft.” It wasn’t really a question and John didn’t wait for a response before heading across the room to retrieve his bag from where he’d dumped it on his arrival. Slinging it over his shoulder, he returned to the couch and carefully helped Mycroft to stand.


	7. Chapter 7

“Easy,” John said when the other man wobbled on unsteady legs. If he hadn’t already spotted just how much weight that Mycroft had shed then it would have become uncomfortably apparent as he had to step in to help him the short distance to the bedroom; ribs and hip bones too obvious even underneath his clothing. Mycroft winced audibly as John helped him sit on the edge of the bed.

“I really don’t think…” He was obviously trying to put John off, but it wasn’t going to work. 

“It’ll only take a minute.” He pulled out his blood pressure cuff and his penlight, ignoring any further objections.

“Tea,” Greg said from the doorway, when he reappeared after a few minutes, stirring in what the doctor assumed was likely to be a generous helping of sugar.

“Thank you but,” Mycroft began, losing the little colour that he’d regained over the last few minutes.

“I’m sure that you’re feeling utterly rubbish now that you’ve actually paused but,” John said quietly, taking the mug from Greg who drifted back out to leave them in peace. “This will help if you can keep it down.” He got a tight lipped nod in return and the older man took hold of the proffered cup. “Can you tell me what the doctor at A&E said?” he asked after a moment.

“Minor cuts and abrasions only.” Mycroft said flatly as John, hung his stethoscope around his neck, and slid the cuff off the other man’s arm.

“Did they send you for any scans? X-rays?” he asked.

“Not necessary.”

“You didn’t hit your head at any point? Nothing fell on you?”

“No… No I was… pushed clear of the worst of the falling debray.” A particularly strong tremble ran through the man’s frame and John was glad that he still had hand in the vicinity of the mug so that he could rescue it as it’s contents splashed dangerously. Mycroft seemed to pull himself out of the flashback quickly, but John realised that his control was slipping, particularly as he was now gazing at the bloodstain on his sleeve as if seeing it for the first time. “Oh…” he breathed, reaching tentatively to brush his fingers against the folded, stained fabric. 

“Mycroft, look at me please,” John instructed calmly. “We’re going to get you out of those things and into that bed so you can get some sleep. Mycroft?” The other man hadn’t looked up yet, was still focussed on his own sleeve. 

“I… I’m sorry… I shouldn’t have… this is... It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have…” he looked up and into John’s eyes for the first time. “I’m so sorry, I always try but it’s…” The doctor was suddenly sure that this regret was certainly not for Anthea alone. 

“Mycroft,” he said trying to break through the mounting distress, “Mycroft,” he said again, channeling that military edge while crouching down to forcibly still the other man’s hands. “That’s it,” John said, when his breathing hitched. “Slowly, in and out.”

After a few minutes, when the other man’s breathing had settled somewhat, John asked another question,

“Did they give you anything at the hospital? Painkillers? A Sedative?” he asked, watching carefully as he could tell that the other man was still struggling to focus.

“He didn’t come away with anything,” Greg offered after a moment from the door where he’d been lurking at an appropriate distance. 

“I…. I declined… I don’t need… I’m sorry… you shouldn’t have to…I should… I shouldn’t be here.” Mycroft said in a halting rush, shuddering again, his frame continuing to tremble. 

“I’m going to override that decision I’m afraid,” John said. “You’re exhausted, in pain and you need rest. Greg, if I write a prescription do you know where the nearest late night pharmacy is?” He hadn’t finished his physical exam yet but he had a good idea what it was he might need.

“I’ll find it,” he said. 

“There’s one on the Old Brompton Road that’s open 24hrs if there isn’t anything closer,” John said.

“I abandoned the car earlier but there’s always cabs on the main road.”

“Mycroft?”John asked, turning back to his patient. “Can you tell me if you’re allergic to anything? Are you already on any medication?”

“Not allergic no…” There was a pause that caused John to look up from his prescription pad.

“Greg, give us a minute will you?”

“‘Course,” Greg agreed immediately stepping back out of the door and closing it behind him.

“I know this is difficult and that you wouldn’t normally want to confide in me, but I’m here as a doctor and I need to know.” There was a jerky nod, and then a quiet stream of enough medication to stock a pharmacy, along with dosages and a schedule. 

He listed an ACE inhibitor presumably for treating high blood pressure, there was an anti-malarial, a PIP most commonly used for treating stomach ulcers and an anti-anxiety med, that might possibly have been being used as a muscle relaxant. Then there was the ‘as required’ prescription medications; a high dose triptan for migraine, an antiemetic, codeine and another analgesic usually used for joint pain and finally something that was mostly amphetamine and turned John’s stomach. He took a deep breath and pulled up the British Medical Formulary on his phone to check the contra-indications of everything. 

“... I haven’t taken any of them since… I don’t know. It was on the plane earlier… before… I must have missed a dose...” Mycroft frowned at this own confusion.

“It’s ok,” John said, reaching out to place a hand over the other man’s again. “Don’t worry about that just now this’ll just help me work out what I can give you to help you get some rest.” 

That said, he scribbled a number of additions to the script on his pad and after a moment, turned it over and added a couple more before standing. “I’ll be right back,” he said before crossing the room and leaning out the door. “We probably won’t need all of this but...”

“Sure,” the DI said, taking the sheets of paper he was being proffered. “I’ll not be long.”

“Right,” John said, turning back to his impromptu patient, “let’s get you out of these things.”

“I’m sure I can…” the other man protested and John backed off allowing him to begin to undress himself. He focussed on putting his kit back in his bag allowing Mycroft to struggle with the buttons of his waistcoat. 

After several minutes, John stepped in and without a word, he undid both waistcoat and shirt that had still been defeating Mycroft’s trembling fingers. 

He seemed resigned to accepting assistance now, so John simply pressed on in silence, easing first one garment then the other over Mycroft’s stiff set shoulders. He relied on professional distance as he catalogued the grazes and bruises that marred the pale skin; initially he’d fallen back on it to dampen his personal feelings about the other man but now, it was about suppressing his growing horror at the ordeal he had endured. 

Mycroft struggled to lift his arms above his head to help get the t-shirt on, which didn’t surprise John given the repetitive strain keeping compressions going for as long as Mycroft had, would have caused. It seemed to unnerve the other man.

“Not to worry,” he said, helping him work first one then the other arm through the worn sleeves. Gently, he tested the range of movement in Mycroft’s neck, shoulders and wrists, unsurprised to find them all stiff and clearly painful. “No permanent damage I think, and Greg will be bringing back some anti-inflammatories and painkillers which will help.” 

“A little pain is no bad thing sometimes.” It was so quiet that John barely heard it. The scars and what he knew of the other man’s history made him suspect that this was not the first time that he’d told himself this. Getting him into the pyjama bottoms that Greg had left out was another challenge; Mycroft had struggled to stand back up, back and legs all clearly protesting but they’d managed together.

“I’m going to see if there’s anything around to make toast with,” John said, standing up, his own knees creaking. “It would be good to get something in your stomach before those pills arrive.” Standing up, he suddenly felt a little awkward. “Try the tea again?” Mycroft nodded slightly, looking at and then turning to pick up the mug previously abandoned on the bedside cabinet. 

John left him there, perched on the edge of the mattress in pyjamas that were both too short and too wide clasping a mug of lukewarm tea like a lifeline. This was not the man he had met in a warehouse, not the man whom he had grown to hate, the man he had yelled at in the hush of the Diogenes.


	8. Chapter 8

Greg jogged along the street from the pharmacy, scanning the road for a taxi. He’d had the prescription filled, trying not to think too hard about what was in it and whether he really ought to have pushed harder to have Mycroft kept in. The more he’d seen this afternoon and evening, the more John had asked and said, the plainer it became that he really hadn’t had any idea what it was he had been doing. 

He’d known Mycroft for years, though without Sherlock’s antics to necessitate a meeting, they hadn’t seen much of each other this last while. But he supposed he’d always had a fond spot for him. Greg had seen him at his lowest when he was unguarded, seen the effect that his brother’s behaviour had on him. Had seen him at the end of an international trip (that had mysteriously coincided with some global crisis), seen him almost on his knees with exhaustion, but never, never had he doubted that Mycroft Holmes was the man in charge of the situation, of all the situations in which he was involved. It hadn’t felt like that today.

While the lack of minions or security had seemed strange, the arrival of Not- _The_ -Anthea, had seemed to make it clear that obviously things had changed. He’d seen _The_ -Anthea manage Mycroft with a gentle word, a reminder of the time or of what was next on their itinerary but equally he’d seen the other man request the impossible of her, dismiss her or her concerns with a look or a word. He wondered if it was the fiasco with Sherlock that had made the difference, that had turned his brother from the puppeteer to the marionette. 

Hailing a passing cab, Greg climbed into the back and gave the driver his address. He’d need to get his car back from where he’d abandoned it at some point but it wasn’t a priority this evening and if he ended up with a ticket, well that was a tomorrow problem too. His flat smelt of Indian when he opened the door reminding him of the take-away drying out in the oven. Closing the heavy front door quietly behind him, Greg fastened the chain, listening to see if he could hear anything of the other men. He knocked quietly on the bedroom door, not wanting to interrupt without warning but pushed the door ajar almost straight away.

“Hey,” he offered by way of greeting. “Special delivery.”

“Thanks,” John said, standing from where he had been crouched before the other man. “Perfect timing,” he added quietly. Despite trying to offer Mycroft some degree of privacy, Greg’s attention was being magnetically drawn to the figure sitting against the headboard of his bed.

In the half light of the lamp, the sharp planes and concaves of the other man’s face seemed more obvious and wearing Greg’s own pyjamas, he looked smaller and frailer than ever. John took the bag and routed through before selecting a couple of pill boxes and bottles. “Right Mycroft, I’m giving you something to help you relax and get off sleep and I want you to take this painkillers and these anti-inflammatories. They should help mitigate some of the discomfort you have now and that’s only going to get worse overnight.” 

Greg watched as Mycroft followed the doctor with his eyes as John collected the various pills together on his palm before holding them out. There was a moment when Greg wasn’t sure what was going to happen before a tentative hand reached out and took the medication and grimacing, lifted them to his mouth and downed them all. 

“Done like a pro,” Greg mumbled, he’d been known to dry-swallow the odd paracetamol in his time but this made it seem like child’s play.

“Finish that if you can,” John said to his patient, handing over a glass of water that hadn’t been necessary for washing down the pills. There was another tight lipped smile in return. “I’ll be back in a couple of minutes,” John added standing up. “Don’t fight sleep when it comes,” he continued softly, smoothing the covers. 

They retreated out of the bedroom and back into the hall. When the door closed behind them, John lent against the wall and scrubbed a tired hand over his face. 

“Bugger,” he said with a sigh and Greg had to agree wholeheartedly. 

“Look mate,” Greg started, “I appreciate what you’ve done but…”

“Don’t start that now you wanker. It’s too bloody late and you know it,” John said the corner of his mouth twitching up. “In for a penny and all that…”

“Sorry. Maybe I shouldn’t have...” 

“Shut it. Look, he needed medical intervention. I can’t imagine that they’d have left him alone even if he’d been checked in for observation so I’d rather he was here. With someone who is on his side.”

“Fuck.” Greg said quietly. “What the Fuck was that anyway?”

“No idea. No that’s not true, I think it was an insight into the life of a man who has no power.”

“I’d like to disagree but…”

“Look I don’t know what the rest of the night will be like, I didn’t want to be too heavy handed with the sedative given how underweight and chronically exhausted he is. And tomorrow may be worse. He hasn’t even accepted what’s happened, never mind processed it.”

“Yeah, well we’ll deal with that tomorrow. I’ll be damned if I let him disappear off with that automaton bitch without a fight.” Greg meant it too. Mycroft might be more of an acquaintance than a friend but he didn’t think he could have lived with himself if he hadn’t stepped in when he had. 

Ever since he’d met Sherlock, there was a trail of fortunate happenstances through his life, stumbling on a competent divorce attorney in his price range had only been the beginning. Even after Sherlock’s death, while his name hadn’t been cleared, the investigation into Greg himself had been dropped with remarkably little fuss. It wasn’t just him either; while he’d never mentioned it to John, the fact that he’d found such a perfect posting and then a remarkably affordable flat nearby it seemed a little too good to be true to Greg. Maybe this was his opportunity to return the favour.

“In the meantime,” Greg said. “We should eat.”

“Sure, and I don’t know about you but I could murder a beer,” John agreed. “I’m hoping that Mycroft will slip off to sleep while no-one’s looking. I’ll check on him in a bit though,” 

“Sounds perfect,” Greg agreed, pushing away from the wall and propelled himself in the direction of the front room.


	9. Chapter 9

They ate, making small talk but the awareness of Mycroft, hopefully asleep in the other room was never far from either of their minds. There were regular silences where Greg was stretching his hearing to it’s very limits but there wasn’t anything that he could hear. Eventually, John put his plate down on the coffee table and stood back up. He didn’t offer any explanation as none was needed and once he’d left the room, Greg set about trying to distract himself. 

Picking up the detritus from the meal, he took everything through to the kitchen and filled the sink while the leftovers went into the fridge. It was only a few minutes later when John appeared back in the doorway.

“Fast asleep. For now at least.”

“Tea?” Greg asked, some of the tension he’d been holding in his shoulders easing. 

“Why not.”

The two of them sat in the living room drinking copious mugs of tea and ridiculing police procedurals and medical dramas in turn. The hours passed quite pleasantly and if it wasn’t for the fact that John periodically drifted into Greg’s bedroom, it might have been any other quiet night in. When they reached the point of agreeing that it was time to try for a little sofa/armchair snoozing, Greg headed out into the hall to raid the linen cupboard for blankets and pillows. He was elbow deep in mismatched sheets, beginning to wonder whether he had taken that other travel rug when he’d moved out after all when something made him stop. Pausing, he tilted his head to the side.

There was a moment where all that could be heard was the muffled sound of Columbo coming from the living room but then there was something else. Crossing the hall, in a slightly surreal moment, he knocked on his own bedroom door.

“Mycroft?” he asked quietly not really expecting an answer and when he didn’t receive one he opened the door anyway. He’d made it about two steps before the unsettled figure on the bed as good as threw himself upright and onto his feet.

“Easy,” Greg said holding his hands up in an open gesture. Knowing that the light from the hall would be making him nothing more than a silhouette he continued to speak quietly. “It’s just me. Greg. You’re in my flat. I think you’ve probably had a nightmare. It’s ok.” He was saying that, but Mycroft looked like a cornered animal, his gaze darting around the room his chest heaving.

“I…” the other man said. “There was…” A shudder, closer to a convulsion racked his frame and as he raised a hand to his mouth Greg realised what was happening. Stepping out of the doorway, he managed to indicate which was the door to the bathroom. 

Mycroft fell to his knees just in time for him to start heaving, but seemed to be struggling to stay on them. Greg closed the distance between them, sitting down on the floor next to him to help keep him upright over the bowl.

“That’s it,” he said quietly. “Easy.”

John appeared out of the living room, but hung back.

“Nightmare I think,” Greg said lightly and the other man nodded, his lips tight. The doctor drifted away but returned shortly with a glass of tepid water which Greg took. Mycroft seemed to have thrown up what little had been in his stomach but was still clinging to the rim and shivering.

“Here,” John said, having retrieved the blanket Greg had unearthed earlier.

“Let’s get this round you,” Greg said. “Ready to rinse your mouth out?” John had drifted away again, clearly happy to let Greg do some caretaking.

“Thank you,” Mycroft said quietly taking the glass and rinsing and spitting it into the bowl. Greg reached up and flushed the loo, before sitting back down, content to support the other man until he was ready to move away. Mycroft sipped quietly at the water whenever Greg prompted him but otherwise they sat in silence. 

After some time, he realised that Mycroft was sitting more upright under his own power, pulling away from him.

“Ready to head back to bed?” Greg asked. 

“I… I need to wash up,” he said tentatively and Greg followed his eyes down to his hands. 

“Sure,” Greg said lightly, standing up and holding a hand out for the other man. He was much more gentle with the tug to help him up than he would normally have been and was glad given the wince Mycroft failed to suppress as he straightened up. 

He reeled slightly once he was upright and Greg reached out so that he had hold on either elbow. It was a long way from an intimate touch, but in the quiet and in the tight space of the bathroom it felt… different. Standing quietly, waiting for a sign that the dizziness had passed, Greg tired very hard to focus on anything other than wondering how long it had been since someone had hugged this man.

Once again, Mycroft was the first to draw back, clasping the blanket that was still draped around his shoulders. 

“Someone brought some things to the hospital?” he asked tentatively. 

“Yeah,” Greg replied. “There was a suit bag as well as your laptop.” 

“No overnight case? Washbag?”

“Afraid not, but I’ve got a spare toothbrush you can have. I’ll sort you out a flannel and you’re welcome to use whatever’s here but maybe better to leave it at a quick wash just now though? Not sure John would approve of my letting have a full on shower.” Greg could see the hesitation in the other man’s face as his eyes scanned the shelves and rims of the fittings, but was struggling to place the cause. 

“That’s very kind of you. Is there… That is, there doesn’t seem to be any soap.”

“Oh, it’s right there,” Greg said with a gesture to the pump action hand soap dispenser next to the sink. “Or there’s body wash on the edge of the bath.”

“Those are not…” He watched as Mycroft stopped himself, closed his eyes, breathing deeply to gather himself before he continued. “Would you have a solid soap bar at all? Pears for preference.” The request sounded odd, strained, and the alarm bells that had already been ringing started a new peal.

“I don’t think so, but I’ll check when I grab you a facecloth.”

“That’s very good of you… I’m sorry… Thank you.”

“Don’t worry about it. Toothbrush is under the sink and I’ll be back in a minute.”

“Thank you,” Mycroft said again, already turning towards the sink and turning the taps on.


	10. Chapter 10

John was quite happy to let Greg look after Mycroft. Not only had his relationship with the other man never been quite so strained as John’s, he was pretty sure that Greg had never made the sorts of threats he had, but he had a quiet compassion about him. He was good at being with people, being understanding as well as non threatening in his quietness. It was something John had appreciated personally on several occasions. Once he’d handed over the water and the blanket, he’d retreated back to the living room, trusting that Greg would shout on him if he was needed.

It was sometime later when Greg reappeared, frowning.

“Alright?” John asked.

“Yeah… Yeah Mycroft’s just cleaning up a bit. He’s… uh asking for soap. Like a bar of soap. Said I’d check but…” he shrugged in acknowledgement that 

“I might have some,” John said, the cogs turning and some more pieced drifted into orbit with each other. “You never know where you might end up and what you might have to touch in my line of work and sometimes gloves are just not enough.” He’d brought his bag as well as all the prescription drugs out to the living room and opening one of the zipped pockets and fishing out a travel sized bar soap in a plastic case. 

“Here you go,” he said tossing it at Greg. 

“Thanks, mate.”

When he’d handed over the soap to Mycroft and come back though Greg didn’t look much less concerned. The pair of them sat in the first truly awkward silence of the evening and listened to sound of the taps running. As soon as you were paying attention, most things seemed to take longer than you might expect. How long was it reasonable to expect a shaken, post sedation, shocked middle aged man to wash? Eventually, Greg started shifting as though he were going to get up.

“I might just…” he said, running his hand through his hair.

“Let me,” John said gesturing him to stay where he was and standing himself.

The door to the bathroom was still far enough ajar that John could watch as the other man scrubbed his hands and forearms with a nail brush, more thoroughly than some surgeons he knew. Once he was seemingly satisfied that he’d covered every inch of skin, he rinsed off under the steaming stream of water. Shaking his hands free of the excess moisture he seemed to give a moment or two’s consideration before he picked up the bar of soap and began to lather up again with resigned determination. 

John stepped forward and placed a gentle hand on Mycroft’s shoulder, not stopping him or interfering but enough to attract his attention.

“How many times?” he asked. 

“This is eight,” came the quiet response, his actions continuing undisrupted. 

“And how many times would be enough? Is there a magic number?” Obsessive compulsive tendencies had their own internal logic, the number of repetitions could be as important as the right tools, the right type of soap.

“Thirty-four is ideal,” it was a painful admission.

“Ok,” John said, that was unfortunately high. “You know that your hands are clean though,” he continued gently. Mycroft did not seem to acknowledge this statement for some time, continuing instead to clean the backs of his hands, between his fingers, under his precisely trimmed nails and scrubbing all the way up to the crook of his elbow and back down.

“It’s not right,” he murmured pausing at the end of the repetition, his anxiety obviously growing. “It’s not working.” 

“Have you ever been diagnosed Mycroft?”

“It’s not normally so bad,” he said distractedly. “I… usually… I manage it better.”

“It’s been a difficult day. Is there another number that’s good? Maybe something smaller than thirty-four?”

“Three is ok. Anthea liked three. Usually three is ok.”

“Do they have anything else in common? Three and thirty-four?”

“They’re both in the Fibonacci Sequence.”

“Remind me…” John said casually, having no idea of the answer.

“It is a sequence that occurs in nature. The basic sequence can be acquired by adding the previous two numbers: zero, one, one, two, three, five, eight, thirteen, twenty-one, thirty-four…”

“Eight,” John said, interrupting the recitation. “Could eight be enough?”

“I… I’ll try. Sometimes, when it’s bad I wear an elastic band around my wrist. Snapping it…it helps break the… sometimes.”

“OK.” This wasn’t unusual, negotiating an acceptable number of times a compulsion could be repeated, and introducing a physical distraction were both ways of managing obsessive episodes. It was a difficult line between not facilitating the behaviour but supporting the sufferer but a physical intervention was not what was required now.

There was a longer pause this time before Mycroft once again reached for the soap.

“Mycroft, you need to stop this. You’re hurting yourself.”

“I know… I know but I… I can’t. It isn’t right…It isn’t working.”

“How about we try and focus on something else?” John suggested, knowing that if he could get Mycroft to focus on something outside of the routine, the chances were he could break the cycle. This was high risk topic for both of them but it was the only thing that John could think that might do the trick. “Tell me about Sherlock? About when you were both kids.”


	11. Chapter 11

This time, Greg was not trying as hard as perhaps he should have been not to hear what was transpiring between the other two. His unease that something was wrong, something more than just... everything else, left him jittery and unable to settle. What he was hearing though made sense, and it was increasingly clear that Sherlock was not the only Holmes brother who had had obsessive habits. If anything, Greg was beginning to wonder just how much of Mycroft’s behaviour could have been down to carefully managed OCD. In any case, it seemed that John had a good handle on the situation. When he heard him ask about Sherlock though, he froze, wondering what on earth he was thinking. 

“Tell me about Sherlock, about when you were kids?” There was a lengthy pause when only the sound the of water and the washing of hands could be heard. 

“One year," Mycroft began falteringly, "Sherlock could only have been five, he decided he wanted to make his own Christmas crackers…”

If the younger Holmes brother had still been alive the DI would have considered these stories pure gold blackmail material. The image of a young Sherlock having blown his eyebrows off, or forcing his brother to ‘walk the plank’ on fear of being doused with a garden hose were good but not so much as the picture Mycroft painted of when Sherlock had fallen into the pond at the bottom of the garden.

“…he was convinced that the location of the frogspawn in the pond could indicate something about the genetic predisposition of the parents. I’d warned him what would happen but he was determined to get a sample from the centre and wouldn’t listen. 

“He had rigged up this contraption of a jam jar tied to the end of a pole with string and he just kept leaning in and then all of a sudden there was a splash and there he was, sitting in the water, curls plastered to his head and covered in weeds.” Mycroft’s hands seemed to have stilled in the basin and from where he’d drifted, Greg could see that there was a genuinely fond smile on John’s face. 

“I always tried to warn him,” the other man continued after a moment’s pause, his voice cracking again. “I tried to keep him safe. I tried to…. I always… I always tried John and then… I’m so sorry… so very sorry... ” On instinct, Greg had moved forward and was standing in the open door when Mycroft’s knees finally gave out beneath him. It was only John’s quick reflexes that he avoided smashing his head off the sink. 

Both of them ended up kneeling on the floor, folded in the small space next to the sink, Mycroft continued to repeat the apology over and over again.

“Easy, easy there. Greg,” John said, quietly enough to suggest that he knew he was nearby. “Would you grab my bag?” he asked for the second time that night.

“Of course,” he replied turning back to the sitting room.

“Mycroft, deep breaths. It’s ok,” John continued. 

Greg grabbed the medical bag and hurried back into the hall to hand it over.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…” the repetition continued, Mycroft’s panicky breathing escalating. He looked impossibly small, knees folded under his chin and tears pouring down his face. In that moment, the likeness between the brothers was undeniable, despite the difference in their colouring and Greg was suddenly struck by an image of Sherlock cowering in the corner of a bedsit during a bad trip.

“Would you mind,” John asked, looking at him and then at the floor on the other side of the shuddering form. Greg’s head jerked uncoordinatedly before he knelt awkwardly and shuffled to sit next to him. “Mycroft, Greg’s going to help you try and breathe slowly. That’s right, with him, In…. and out… In…. and out…”

“Yeah, that’s it mate,” Greg said. He knew this drill. “I’m going to put your hand on my chest OK?” He moved the tense limb so that the other man’s palm was over his heart. “In…. and out.” John had pulled out the bag of prescription medication and carefully selected a bottle, before pulling out a sealed needle. Greg purposefully focussed on Mycroft while the other pulled up a dose of the medication. 

“Mycroft,” John said, waiting until he’d got his attention before continuing. “I’m going to give you an injection.” Using a nifty sponge contraption he disinfected a patch of skin on his upper arm and before there could be too much protest delivered the medication. “That’s it,” he said gently. “That’s it. Keep breathing with Greg.”

“You’re doing so well,” Greg said, smiling when Mycroft’s head moved slowly back to look at him. He could almost see the other man’s pupils expanding as he watched. “In… and out.” Less than a minute later all tension had left Mycroft’s angular frame as unconsciousness claimed him.

It took some degree of maneuvering to get the three of of them off the floor and back through to the bedroom but manhandling unconscious Holmes wasn’t something either of them were new to. As they deposited Mycroft back onto the bed his head hit the pillow without a stir.

“I was a bit heavier handed this time,” John said matter of factly. “He needs to rest before we’re going to able to help him with everything else.”

“And there seems to be a shit tonne of ‘everything else’.”

“Yes. Yes there does.”

“Do you think,” Greg said, more tentatively as they straitened covers and moved away from the bed. “Was that…”

“You heard what I did,” John said with a rye look. “I think he’s probably been struggling for a long time. This has just pushed him over into a crisis he just doesn’t have the reserves to fight.”

“Will he be alright?” .asked, watching the unnaturally still figure.

“Are any of us?” Came the quick response. “Sorry,” John said almost immediately afterwards. “He should be out for at least six hours. All I’ll say at this point is that he’s not going to be fit to go back to work tomorrow morning.”

“Yeah well, I wasn’t about to let that happen anyway.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The cross-over is very mild - and if you're not a Spooks/MI5 fan then you should still be able to enjoy :)  
> (I've taken a little liberty with that cannon timeline and other things in any case...)

John stayed in the bedroom, keen to monitor his patient at regular intervals given the level of sedation he’d exposed him to. Mycroft rested deeply though, his respiration and heart rate all within the norm, or at least where John was content to consider safe. Or at least, not worthy of blue flashing lights and an emergency trip back to hospital. There was still the issue of internal bleeding and the more external bruising that began to appear, the more John wished they’d taken the precaution of some internal scans before they’d allowed him to walk out of A&E. 

Greg had brought him through a basin of warm water and a flannel so he could wipe the tear tracks and the accumulated grime from Mycroft’s face. His hands and forearms were still red raw but having almost emptied out the contents of his medical bag John found a tube of emollient.

“Let’s see what we can do with this shall we?” he said quietly and mostly to himself. He’d sent Greg to try and get some sleep on the sofa, knowing that whatever happened tonight, that one of them would need to be awake tomorrow.

Slathering on the cream, he found himself thinking of the stories Mycroft had told, the clear affection in his voice as he spoke of all the ridiculous things his younger brother had done and the lengths he had always gone to try and look after him. There was no doubt at all that the panic attack was the result of everything that had happened in the preceding twenty four hours but… The emotion, the regret and guilt, were clearly something that he had been living with. Wiping a stray tear away from his own eye, John had to acknowledge that whatever the morning brought, even indifference was well beyond him now.

He woke, was upright and reaching for a gun he didn’t carry before he knew what had jolted him from his doze. He’d been sitting in a chair, his legs propped on the edge of the mattress but now, now he was standing in the middle of Greg’s bedroom the early morning sun leaching through the curtains. It wasn’t until there was another knock at the door that he was spurred into action.

“Alright!” Greg called from the living room. “Bloody hell.” John crossed the room swiftly, reaching the hall just as Greg managed to unfasten the chain on the front door. “I am telling you now though, just like we said last night, Mycroft’s not going anywhere. Oh.” John stepped forward so he could see who was there at the clear change of tone.

“My apologies DI Lestrade,” came a gruff, male tone. “If I could have left it any longer then I would have.”

“Do I know you?” Greg asked. 

“No, you don’t, but I’m an old friend of Mycroft’s. Harry Pearce,” he said holding out his hand. “Would you mind if I come in?”

“Five?” Greg asked, still not fully opening the door.

“Five,” Harry agreed. “Mycroft and I have run into each other professionally on occasion. We’ve… been able to be useful to each other. I’ve come to respect him a great deal and I’d like to think that he trusts me just a little.” There was another slightly tense moment until Greg pulled the door open. 

“Well then, you better come in,” he said, stepping back. John watched as an unremarkable man in a nice if unremarkable suit and dress coat stepped into the flat.

“Doctor Watson,” he said as he passed, following Greg’s lead into the sitting room. Greg caught his eye and raised and eyebrow before they both followed him through.

“My team are keeping _Anthea_ and her cohort distracted but we don’t have long.”

“Harry?” Mycroft’s voice from the doorway behind them caused all three of them to turn. He looked at first glance, even to John, terribly young. Whether it was the oversized the pyjamas or the just woken expression and rumpled hair, hardly mattered, this was not the iceman.

“Mycroft,” the other man said, pausing in pulling off his leather gloves. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you. I’m sorry for what happened… If I’d been in the country...” While the sentence was vague and incomplete John got the jist. Something equally upsetting had happened to Harry and the two knew each other well enough for the short hand to mean as much as stiff upper lipped British condolences ever could.

“Well, at least partly due to what happened, I’m here with a proposition. I’m in the market for an analyst; exceptional recall, a facility for multiple languages ideally including Arabic, Russian or Cantonese and a solid understanding of global politics and their impact in the UK.”

“Oh.”

“It’d be a hell of a step down from what you’re used to,” Harry said. “But we could get an internal transfer processed by the end of the day and then, when you’re ready to come back to work we’ll sort out the details.” The magnitude of what this meant, even when John didn’t really understand, hung heavy in the air. 

“Harry, I… thank you…”

“Don’t thank me yet, you don’t know what I’m like to work for. Or how badly us mere mortals are paid. You’ve pulled my neck out of more than one noose over the years,” he continued. “The least I can do is offer you an out. I’ll not take it personally though if…”

“Yes,” Mycroft interrupted. “Please.”

“Well then,” Harry said, breaking in to something akin to a smile for the first time. John watched as he pulled a set of documents from an inside pocket, smoothing the central fold before handing them over. 

John’s misgivings were mitigated somewhat by the fact that Mycroft started reading the papers rather than simply signing them.

“Time for tea mate?” Greg asked with a very different, much more friendly air.

“I’d better not,” Harry said, plainly forlorn. “I want to get these filed as soon as possible.”

“Pen,” Mycroft requested, absently holding out his hand as he read the last paragraph. Harry handed one over without a missed beat and they all watched as Mycroft turned, put the papers up against the wall and signed the final page.

“Here’s to a change of station,” he said handing them back over. 

“To new beginnings,” Harry replied. The two of them held each other’s gaze for several moments before Harry spoke again. “You shouldn’t have too much trouble from the other lot once these are submitted. I’d suggest you lay low until tomorrow though.”

“Sure, whatever’s best.” Greg replied earnestly.

“A pleasure to meet you both. Needless to say I wish the circumstances had been different.” Having shaken their hands, Harry left with no fuss, closing the front door behind him. Almost as if the relief had suddenly struck him, as the door closed Mycroft’s knees gave way and he stumbled back towards the wall. 

“Back to bed with you,” John said gently, as Greg stepped forward and gallantly wrapped an arm beneath Mycroft’s shoulders. “I’m surprised you made it upright at all.”

“Sorry….”

“No apologies,” Greg chided. “Glad your mate made it round and things are mostly sorted though. In the meantime though, back to bed yeah?” 

“I should….”

“Be sleeping,” John said firmly. 

“We’ll deal with the rest later,” Greg added. “Together.”


	13. Epilogue

Mycroft lent against the counter in his kitchen and took a bite of a slice of toast, savouring the sweet tang of the honey. The quiet stillness of this new early morning ritual was one he took time to enjoy every day. The Today Show burbled along in the background and he managed to acknowledge the flairs of irritation he felt without the rush of anxiety that had accompanied them for so long. He’d finish his tea before walking along the river to Thames House, at his desk no earlier the 08:30.

He’d completed his physio exercises as part of his morning yoga, the routine helping mitigate the collection of injuries he’d incurred over the years. Regular exercise, sleeping and eating it turned out had done wonders for him. Even Mycroft himself now had enough to insight to realise that despite Anthea’s best endeavours he had been an absolute wreck for the best part of three years before everything changed. She had worked miracles given the circumstances and certainly no-one could have done better but now, almost a year later Mycroft still struggled to understand how he had ended up in that situation.

The gentle ping of his phone, nudged him out of his musings and he looked down, smiling fondly.

_Happy Friday! Still up for tonight? G_

_If you’re sure I can’t dissuade you... M_

_We should all have escaped and made it to The Arms by 18:30 - Sal’s told everyone you’re coming! G_

_I’ll let you know when I’m on my way. Enjoy your day. M_

_You too! They’re not that scary I promise. Can’t wait to see you Gx_

_xxx_

Since that fateful day, when Greg and John had swept in as his world was falling down around his ears, they had been determinedly there. John had proven remarkably patient and pragmatic in helping him identify what steps he needed to take so that he would once again be something akin to healthy. And through it all, Gregory had been stalwart in his friendship. He was a quiet presence during the dark days and a gentle encouragement that things could be different in the future. 

That first week was mostly a blur to Mycroft, but once he was able to think more than a few minutes ahead, Gregory had been there ready to help. They’d found him find a new flat, somewhere handy for Thames House (no chauffeurs any longer) and much more suited to a man of his needs. It was clean, bright and contemporary and it felt like a fresh start. While he mourned the loss of some keepsakes in the almost complete destruction of his previous home, it felt right and somehow necessary to start again. Greg had stayed in the spare room for the first few nights and they spent most of the days putting together furniture from Ikea. This was, he was informed, a new home ritual though it was one he’d never experienced before.

Over the next six months, through the counseling and his return to work, they’d seen each other regularly. In addition to quiet nights in and the occasional trip to a quiet restaurant, they’d had what Gregory liked to call ‘adventures’. These involved everything from drives out to the country where Mycroft was encouraged to join Gregory for a pint and a ploughman's at a riverside pub, to watching a film on a floating pontoon in the Thames to, on one memorable occasion, milking a goat at a country museum. During it all, Mycroft had laughed more than he could remember doing in more than a decade. 

It wasn’t all laughter though; sometimes plans had to change and there were days when it was all Mycroft could do to read the text messages Gregory or John had sent. Those days became fewer though and this last six months he seemed to have reached an equilibrium that was happier and more content than he’d ever expected. He enjoyed working as part of a team who had quickly adapted to his presence and the peculiar skill set in his possession. Sometimes the limits chaffed, being told to stop or that no, that line wasn’t something they could afford to pursue, was a difficult change to adapt to. For the most part, he understood Harry though, and the other man’s respect for him made all the difference. 

As things had settled, his relationship with Gregory had changed, grown deeper and more intimate in turn. Mycroft was, more inexperienced with relationships in general than most but somehow this charming man made it not only worthwhile but natural. Tonight Mycroft would join his colleagues after work for a drink, be formally introduced as the boss’s new beau. They would spend the night together and tomorrow they’d meet John at the Highgate cemetery where four years ago his brother had been laid to rest. 

It wasn’t perfect, he thought, pocketing his phone and taking his anti-anxiety medication with his final mouthful of tea, but it was so much better than what had been the norm for so long. Turning off the radio as yet another Brexit interview began, Mycroft Holmes straightened his tie and stepped out into a new day knowing that whatever else happened Gregory was only ever a message away and that made all the difference in the world.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading - I'm hoping it's going to be a good ride!  
> As ever, I'd love to hear your thoughts here or on twitter @LHA_again  
> Lx


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